The Master of Stair 65

The Master of Stair 65

The servant withdrew and the Earl turned swiftly to Delia.

 

“And you mistress, go and join your people without—do you not hear them

shouting? Go and add your voice to those cursing the Dalrymples—and be

content—for to-night all curses are fulfilled.”

 

She moved slowly nearer to him.

 

“And what is your thought of me, Lord Stair?”

 

He made an imperious gesture as if he would have swept her intruding

presence aside.

 

“I have no thought at all for you.”

 

He stopped, listening; from the confusion of sounds without arose the

crackling of flames; he went to the window; fagots and gunpowder had

been piled in the court and flaming tarred torches flung into the

midst; red lights began to dance in reflections over the floor; and

smoke swept in faint clouds past the windows. Lord Stair felt a cold

hand touch his and turned to look into the face of Delia.

 

“For God’s sake,” she whispered, “for pity’s sake.”

 

He made an impatient attempt to shake her off, but she clung to his

hand desperately in a frenzy of entreaty.

 

“It is burning—don’t you see that it is burning—make haste—at the back

through the garden.”

 

The triumphant shout of the crowd as they saw the flames rise almost

drowned her voice; an unnatural red glare blinding, horrible, filled

the room from end to end.

 

Lord Stair glanced round.

 

“Your work, mistress, your work,” he wrenched himself free of her. “Go

without there yonder and laugh at it.”

 

She was crying and sobbing like a mad woman.

 

“What have I done—I have been crazy—crazy—”

 

With fallen hair and the red light over her from head to foot, she ran

to the door; he followed. The door was burning, the oak stair

threatened; flames were already showing in the hall.

 

Delia wrung her hands, shrieking and moaning to herself, calling on the

living and the dead in her distraction; she ran a little way down the

wide stairs, then at sight of the flaming door fell back with a scream.

 

“Ye should not have come,” said Lord Stair.

 

“Your place is with those who lit the fire.”

 

Her wild eyes lifted to his figure.

 

“Do you think I am afraid for myself?” she cried. She came back to him

with outstretched hands and thrown back head; as she stood there,

poised above the smoking hallway with the flickering light and shade

across her distorted face, she seemed as unearthly, as terribly strange

as her surroundings.

 

Lord Stair, gazing at her, saw the look in her eyes he had seen in his

sister’s and in his own; it was as if there fronted him the evil genius

of his house; once this woman had looked at him differently; as he

stared at her he recalled that other __EXPRESSION__, the other look her

brown eyes had once held in place of the madness that flashed in them

now.

 

Certainly, she was mad; he saw her against the background of the

polished stairway where the flames were reflected; he saw her lean back

against the balustrade with those wild eyes upon him in her uplifted

face; he noticed the crimson light on the long line of her throat and

in the curve of her white lips.

 

“Lord Stair.”

 

She bent forward, touched him, the hideous noise of flames gaining

power, the shouting and cracking of timbers filled the air with a

terrible menace.

 

“Lord Stair.”

 

Her fingers touched his arm, closed round; and he could not escape from

her face, turn his eyes away.

 

“Speak to me,” she said; she was as calm as she had been frantic; her

long hair, loosened, glowed a dusky red behind her marble white face.

But he thought of his wife and would not.

 

“I have nothing to say to you.”

 

He caught hold of her, not tenderly nor roughly, indifferent, merely.

 

“Make haste—down the stairs,” he said. “On the first landing you may

cross the library and gain the garden.”

 

The grasp tightened on her arm.

 

“Come,” he commanded, and drew her after him, leading the way.

 

She did not speak until he paused to open the library door, then she

looked back into the flame-lit hall and cried out she would die.

 

Paying no heed he was dragging her into the dark room when something

rushed out of the door, between them and up the stair.

 

“What was that?” cried Lord Stair; he let go his hold upon the woman

and stepped back.

 

Half-way up the stairs a little black cat peered through the oaken

rails with ears cocked and its green eyes glittering with excitement;

round its neck was a tumbled bow of scarlet.

 

For a moment the man and the animal gazed at each other, then the Earl

began reascending the stairs.

 

“What are you going to do?” cried Delia, barring his way. “You are not

going back? My God! Look how the flames are mounting—they will cut off

your escape.”

 

Lord Stair looked up at the kitten.

 

“It is alive,” he said, “and I cannot let it burn.”

 

“You are mad!” shrieked Delia, clinging to him. “The house has only a

few minutes to stand—they have gunpowder.”

 

He pushed her aside.

 

“Then get you into the garden,” he answered, pointing to the library

door. “There is time for that.”

 

“Will you leave me? Will you go to your death?”

 

“My life is of no moment,” he said grimly, “I shall not leave mourners—”

 

She caught hold of him anew.

 

“I love you, I love you, and you shall not leave me. I love you—I love

you.”

 

He gave a little laugh.

 

“’Tis a strange affection, mistress—it has done the work of hate—let go

of me.”

 

He twisted his arm free of her, his eyes shone curiously.

 

“I love you,” she whispered in bitter agony and fell back against the

wall. With no look at her he mounted the stairs; she shrieked after

him, called and cried. He stopped and looked down, she was standing as

he had left her, half within the library door, her way of escape was

clear behind her.

 

The little cat fled at his approach and galloped ahead of him.

 

He followed it almost to the top of the house across a landing and

through an open door. By the red light from without he could distinctly

see this room and all that it contained.

 

It was his wife’s bed-chamber, it looked as if she had that moment left

it; by a chair stood her high-heeled house shoes, and the garden hat

she had worn that morning; her dressing-table was covered with

trinkets, evidently she had taken nothing with her.

 

He gazed strangely about the room; a little drawing caught his eye; he

knew it well, Samuel Cooper’s portrait of his dead son; he went up to

it and took it from the wall.

 

She had left it behind, she was Harry’s mother and she had done this

hideous thing.

 

As he stood in her deserted room among the details redolent of her, he

could think of nothing but this, the bitterness of the thing she had

done; he forgot why he had come here, he forgot the burning house and

Delia, heavily he sat down with the picture in his hand and gazed round

the emptiness.

 

Irremediable as death and more terrible was this action of hers; he

tried to adjust his mind to the difference it must make to his life.

Then he considered that it was not life but death ahead of them.

Confusion was over him, he could not think clearly; he rested his head

against his arm and groaned aloud, then the image of Tom Wharton

flashed through his agony and he rose with a bitter curse.

 

He slipped the picture into his pocket; where were they now? On the

road to London—London. Something soft brushed against him, and he

mechanically glanced down. It was the black cat.